


Maybe This Time

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Banter, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, H/D Erised 2019, Hogwarts, M/M, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Theodore Nott, Post-Hogwarts, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Harry Potter, Reporter Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-31 09:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21443797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Draco Malfoy? Really? Have they always been headed here, on a collision course of inexplicable connection? Possibly. But Harry Potter is the last person who is going to admit it. Maybe this time, for the first time, love won't hurry away.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 66
Kudos: 249
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. Chapter 1

Harry lay in the grass, staring up at the clear sky long after the dew had begun to soak through his trousers. It was hard to convince himself to go inside; August was almost over and the nights wouldn’t be warm enough for this for much longer. Plus, the stars. They would be even better once he got to the castle, but they were pretty spectacular here, too. He heard the telltale sound of someone approaching and sighed. Hermione dropped down on the grass beside him and looked up to the horizon, tilting her head questioningly toward him.

“I really hate London,” he said by way of explanation.

“Are you planning to come in at all tonight?” Hermione asked, amused.

“You rarely see even one star in the city. And when you do, it’s because it’s so bloody hot that you can barely breathe.” He sat up, pulling his knees up to his chest; Hermione was lying in her bright yellow fuzzy housecoat.

She smiled over at him then gazed back up. “It is pretty spectacular,” she agreed. “Doesn’t ever really get old. Now come inside, you dolt. You have a job to start tomorrow.”

“Not really,” he replied, with a smirk she probably couldn’t see in the darkness. “It’s only orientation.”

“Harry,” Hermione warned.

He cleared his throat and stood up, offering her a hand and pulling her up as well. “You know I’m actually excited about this one, right?”

“There’s a first time for everything, I guess,” she shot back, her voice full of teasing instead of serious, mum-levels of disappointment.

“Hey!” Harry laughed.

He understood why she was hesitant to believe him. He had taken on far too many new careers in the past five years, and even though other twenty-somethings were often forgiven for these moments of flighty change, he knew he was different. He was _Harry Potter, _The Chosen One Who Lived. The one who defeated and found the truth. He was sure of action and saving of lives.

It didn’t help that the ends of all these potential careers had been dramatic and embarrassing: broken bones, mysterious illnesses, extended leaves that never ended. And of course, the internal Ministry tribunal that had led to court-mandated therapy. At this point, even the shame-inducing reality that he’d been given a reprieve as many times as he had because he _was _Harry Potter had worn off.

He was completely out of chances.

There were days when Harry was engulfed by the misery of his current adult life; on those days, he had a hard time cutting himself any slack at all. Every single thought or action reminded him of his many failed attempts to even _start _his life and his many hiccups along the way. When the darkness crept in, he tended to forget what hope felt like, couldn’t recognise the warmth of a friend’s teasing or the grip of a hand keeping him on the ground.

Hermione held him now as though he might fly away, and he understood her worry; he squeezed back, trying to make her understand that he meant his words. He was excited about tomorrow, without reservation or trepidation.

“I’m excited,” he insisted. “I get to go back to a place I understand.”

“Not to mention that this is the perfect fit for you and you probably should have just started here?” Hermione suggested.

Harry shrugged, not really knowing if she could see him. “Sure.”

“Harry, I promise you, you are going to be the _best _Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher since Remus Lupin.”

“What about the curse?”

“Darling,” she crooned, patting his shoulder as they entered the glow of the porch light. “How many curses have you managed to break? Now, off to bed with you, you git.”

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

_Five Years Earlier_

_“…and with this great honour, we bestow upon you the…honour of being members of the oldest of wizarding traditions. To police our own people is to be the governing of our decisions. Never has that been more important in these ever-changing times. You, our latest group of trainees, will be instrumental in guiding the country through this uncertainty and…” _

Harry squirmed in his seat again, earning him a glare from Hermione from across the aisle where she sat with the Weasleys, and an elbow from Ron who had stolen the seat of _Polena, Helen _the second they walked off the stage holding their certificates.

“Three Sickles he says ‘honour’ again before the end of this speech,” Ron whispered loudly, making the people around them giggle.

Harry grinned. “Not taking that bet. It’s inevitable,” he replied. “What do you reckon? Worst convocation speech in history?”

“It’s getting there,” Ron agreed.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, they were finally released to the Atrium in crisp purple robes still creased from cellophane bags. Molly was ready with a camera and rib-crushing hugs, and Harry was already tired. He excused himself to go find a glass of something, _anything, _as soon as Molly had finished snapping photos of he and Ron with every combination of Weasley possible. The people and the pomp were all too much, bringing back memories of the months right after the battle.

He made his way to the refreshment table and, with a glass of champagne in hand, he followed the shadows behind the pennants trying to escape the noise. He quickly discovered a corridor he’d never been down and snuck away from prying eyes, hoping to catch his breath. Unfortunately, a sudden voice and echoing footsteps forced him to duck into a crevice as silently as he could only a moment later.

“Look, Marci, I’ve already _told _you, I don’t need to meet the new grads. They’ll be in my way any day now, just like they always are. I’d rather wait until I’m getting _paid _to deal with them before I actually have to deal with them.”

“Mr Malfoy,” a second voice replied tersely. “As _I _have told _you, _you are a junior Curse-Breaker. You don’t get to choose what you do and when. Out. Now.”

“Fine,” the first, very familiar, snooty voice returned. “But I refuse to smile.”

By the time Harry actually saw him, many stark memories were flooding his senses, and he knew for certain that Draco _bloody _Malfoy was headed down a corridor toward him. “Potter?” Malfoy sneered, apparently unsurprised, disdain quickly settling across his smug face.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied, with as much venom as he could muster. “How in the actual _fuck _do you work here? Shouldn’t you be in jail?”

Malfoy visibly bristled, straightening himself to his full, impressive height and veering away from Harry as quickly as he’d approached. “Best watch it there, Potter. This is the new world Ministry. Prejudice will not be tolerated. Even if it comes from the _Chosen One_.”

Harry restrained himself with everything he was able to muster; even his own brash stupidity knew he did not have the upper hand here in the halls of the Ministry. He hissed out a breath as Malfoy disappeared, his entire body focused on a new, destructive goal.

He had to get Draco Malfoy as far away from the Ministry as possible.

Harry quickly realised he was going to have to put his distrust aside, at least for the moment. He had few connections here, no leverage he could use. There were so many people in and out of the Auror department that he barely remembered anyone’s name, and as if that weren’t enough, he was constantly busy. After two weeks of orientation, introductions, and whirlwind cases meant to ‘get his feet wet’, he was going to bed at nine each night and felt like he’d been working for a decade by his third Friday.

He finally ran into Malfoy again at a morning debrief after a month and a half in uniform. Though he thought he had been ready since convocation, seeing Malfoy in Curse-Breaker Navy made him even more furious than he’d prepared for. With a terse introduction full of the usual Slytherin rancour, Malfoy announced that he would be separating the newest Aurors into groups of three to work with him through their Curse-Breaking rotation. Harry shuddered at the thought of having to work with Malfoy so closely for an entire week; he was also completely unsurprised when he found his name on the first rotation in the break room later that day.

“Excuse me, Auror Lambert?” Harry called out, as calmly as he could as he entered his supervisor’s office.

“Potter,” he replied gruffly. “What is it?”

“I just needed to discuss our rotations? The, uh, interdepartmental training?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I mean… forgive me, but I don’t think I can work with Malfoy.”

Lambert studied him, confused. “What, the Curse bloke? Nonsense, it’s only a week. You’ll be fine.”

“No, sir, I know, I just… I can’t work with _him_.”

Lambert’s expression shifted to a far less charitable glare. He shuffled a few papers around and pulled a file out from the bottom of his desk. “_Potter_, _Harry_,” he read. “Good trainee, lots of natural experience, may experience PTSD and moments of hesitation due to war. Recommended for rookie examination and psychological intervention.”

“Sir—”

“You know, Potter, I was nervous about you being on my squad. A man with your level of… er, _field expertise_ is not always a good thing in a green officer. Here,” he said, stretching out a piece of paper to him. “This is your counsellor.”

“But sir,” Harry protested.

“Non-optional if you want to keep your frontline position,” he declared unapologetically, wiggling the paper until Harry took it. “And Potter?”

Harry sighed. “Yes, sir?”

“You work with who I tell you to work with.”

“Understood,” he answered miserably, slinking out of the office and closing the door behind him.

He tried to reason with himself; it _was _only a week, and he’d survived far worse. Surely he could handle Malfoy for five days. He would not lose his cool in front of the idiot ever again. He squared his shoulders and forced himself to sign off on the first rotation page on the wall, squishing all reservations as deep down into his body as they would go.

* * *

“This is _unbelievable_,” Draco shouted into the large office, causing Marci to raise an eyebrow at him in displeasure.

“Please do try to calm down, Mr Malfoy,” she clipped. “This office is not _soundproof_.”

“_Calm down_? I think fucking _not_!” he roared, slamming the folder she had handed him onto the table. “I have been here for two years… _years_! And Potter waltzes in, using his name and his clout, and suddenly, I’m under _professional investigation_? Are you fucking _kidding _me, Marci? Did you even make an argument for me?”

Although he was fuming, Draco did note that Marci’s face fell slightly upon hearing this accusation and the sadness was just enough to drag him back to himself. He took a deep breath and slumped down in the chair across from her, head in his hands.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was uncalled for. It’s just… Potter. This is what he does to my life. I feel like an idiot child.”

“You’re acting like one, too,” Marci declared, opening the file he’d dropped in front of her and skimming it. “This isn’t that big a deal. It’s just an interdepartmental investigation. He’s claiming you’re unfairly prejudiced against him.”

“_I’m_ prejudiced towards _him_!?”

Marci pushed on. “The request is that you be moved away from training while you undergo psychoanalysis and internal review. How is that a bad thing? You hate training.”

Draco huffed.

“It’s not really a big deal, Draco,” Marci continued. “This isn’t going to impact you long term. He’s entitled to request the review and since it was backed up by his superior officer, it had to go through. It happens all the time. They’ll do the review and move on.”

“Maybe it’s not a big deal for you,” he complained. “I’ve worked my _arse _off to get just an ounce of respect and trust around here. A month in and he’s taken that away. Doesn’t even matter what the review says. Everyone always believes him first.”

He stood up and looked around the office. He considered his options, the niggling in the back of his mind. He thought about the same thing he’d been thinking about for the past three months, even before Potter had shown up in the Ministry and proved him right.

“You know what, Marci? I am not sure I’m actually suited to a career with our illustrious leaders. Bit too much bureaucracy, not enough seeking of the truth.”

“Well, I mean, you do break the rules an awful lot,” she teased.

Draco smiled sadly. “I think… yeah, no, I do. I resign.”

“What?! Draco, don’t be so ridiculous. We can—”

“Relax. We both know this is the right choice. Admit it, I lasted longer than you thought I was going to.”

She looked at him sadly but didn’t argue. “I… I’ll put it through, if you insist. But. Draco, one thing before you go?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe… just maybe take the card of this therapist anyways. Just… to have.” He stiffened, staring at her sympathetic eyes and pointed gesture. He broke the gaze, took the card, and stormed out of the Ministry.

An hour later, sat at their table at the pub, it was taking everything in him not to rip the card into a million tiny pieces as he studied the tiny professional monogram stamped there. Pansy sat across from him with a large glass of house white that kept making her wince when she sipped.

“And now, of course, he’ll be even more sanctimonious, thinking he was right all along and only he could have caught me out,” he whined.

“I thought you didn’t care what Potter thought any more?” Pansy smirked, taking another sip. “Merlin, this truly is awful.”

“So stop drinking it,” he growled.

“And waste a Galleon? Not all of us are family endowed anymore, _Heir Malfoy_.”

“Pansy,” he whimpered, ignoring her. “What have I done? I don’t want to ‘run the household’, and I just gave up the only job I was at all qualified for.”

“Well, if you’re desperate,” she simpered, making him cringe in anticipation as she unsnapped her wallet and pulled out the familiar business card of_ The Prophet_. “Sam is still looking for a sports editor. You can write, darling. Plus, you were on the team at school and things. I could put in a good word for you…”

He took the card viciously and placed it beside the other one, shoving his pint glass to his mouth. “What a fucking _brilliant _day,” he declared, downing the rest of his beer in one long pull.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

_Hogwarts, present day _

The castle loomed at the top of the hill in the same way that it always did. Harry beamed as joy shot through him, making his fingertips tingle and his stomach turn pleasantly. He was home. With his trunk floating behind him, he headed towards the front door and a jovially waving Professor Flitwick.

“Professor Potter!” he called. “Has quite a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Lovely to see you, dear boy!”

“You too, Professor,” Harry called back, mounting the steps two at a time.

“Please,” he laughed. “It’s Fililus now. We’re coworkers, after all!”

“May take some getting used to,” Harry replied with a grin as they ascended three flights of stairs.

Soon, they stood in front of a small, unassuming door, which Flitwick pushed open confidently. “These will be your quarters. They should be set up with whatever you requested from the start of term letter, but let Minerva know if you need anything. We’re meeting in the Hall for lunch at half-twelve and then you’ll have the afternoon to plan for your first week of lessons. The meetings don’t start until after dinner.”

“Thank you,” Harry enthused.

“First time you enter, you’ll be able to set your password. I’ll leave you to it, but I’m just down there if you need anything before lunch.” Flitwick winked at Harry as he added, “I recommend a quick nip of port to get through the tedium of the evening meetings.”

Harry spent the next hour unpacking but found himself bored witless by half-ten, just as he had predicted. Making a split-second decision, he threw on his old house scarf and headed down to the lake.

The smell of Scotland in late summer hadn’t changed at all. The wind by the water was just starting to have an edge of fall in it, and the breeze cleared his head from the stuffiness of the old stone building. He languorously walked the entire perimeter, heading down towards the Quidditch pitch without even meaning to.

The pitch was exactly the same, as though it hadn’t been destroyed and rebuilt at least three times. He wandered down to the Gryffindor entrance and snuck through the waving tapestries. On the third level, he moved out to the bleachers and was startled to find someone out in the field, flying and throwing a charmed Quaffle that returned to them like a boomerang. Harry watched hesitantly for a moment, feeling ludicrously like he was intruding.

The flyer was graceful and precise, skilled with their turns and fast. Clearly they were an experienced player. Harry was puzzled since something about the way the person before him adjusted themselves at every throw was very familiar and disquieting. When the Quaffle went a bit wide, Harry suddenly realised why.

“Malfoy!?” he shouted out into the echoing grounds. Malfoy, clearly having seen Harry first only a moment before, was already headed towards the ground. Harry turned immediately and rushed down the stairs and out onto the pitch, where Malfoy was quickly walking towards the dressing rooms.

“Malfoy!” Harry repeated.

“Stop, Potter,” Malfoy called back. “Go see McGonagall. You were supposed to see her before you saw me.”

“Fuck that,” he yelled back. “What the hell are you doing here!”

Malfoy whirled around, shouldering his broom and storming towards Harry in such a sudden change of direction that Harry stepped back defensively on instinct alone. “Same thing you are, idiot!” Malfoy roared. “And I’d like to know _how _exactly this keeps happening. Are you following me? Having me tracked? One job is a coincidence, two is a bit of a fluke. But _four_. Four jobs in five years and you show up every fucking time. What is it going to take, huh? What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone!”

“Leave _you _alone!” Harry screamed. “You’re the one who won’t get the hell out of my life!”

“Go. See. McGonagall. I’m not doing this with you right now. Not without witnesses,” Malfoy sneered. He spun on his heel and stormed away.

Harry decided that even if the statement was ridiculous, it may also be true. He hardly needed Malfoy to have any more ammunition against him than he already did. He stormed straight to the Headmistress’ office and flung the door open.

“Mr Potter,” McGonagall said calmly. “How nice of you to visit. Lunch will be happening in the Great Hall very shortly. I suggest you change into your robes. Muggle clothing is not permitted at the head table. Decorum, and all that.”

“Professor,” he began through gritted teeth. “I just… encountered one of my fellow professors. On the _Quidditch _pitch.”

McGonagall finally looked up from where she had been writing, gazing at him over her spectacles with the sharp features that had spent many years chastising him.

“I see,” she said. “And what would you like to tell me about this ‘encounter’?”

“I’d like to know why I wasn’t informed that he was going to be here this year!”

“You were sent a list of professors at the school. I don’t see how you failed to see _Draco Malfoy, professor of Potions, Master in training_ when you read it. He’s in his second term here.”

“You might have mentioned!”

“Why?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “Did you also want me to personally inform you that you are going to be required to teach Slytherins?”

“What? No, of course not, I just—”

“Or that you were going to be expected to approach all lessons without prejudice or personal judgement?” The tone of warning she was now using was unmistakable.

Harry stood in stunned silence for a moment. Years worth of unfortunate run-ins with his past flashed before his eyes. Was he really willing to have this opportunity, the only one he’d been excited about since his days in the DA, get taken from him before he’d even had the chance to start? He took a deep breath and rubbed his temples.

“Apologies, Professor,” he muttered. “I was just… surprised.”

“Mr Potter,” she said sternly. “You are now a teacher of young, impressionable people. You have the opportunity to undo the prejudice of generations past, such as the ones that were once inflicted on Mr Malfoy. I daresay that if you spend the time understanding each other a bit better, you may find you have more in common than you imagined.”

He grimaced in reply and nodded tersely.

“If not that,” Mcgonagall conceded, “then I expect at least a modicum of professionalism from you both.”

“Understood,” Harry relented.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

_Four Years Earlier_

Harry lasted three more months at the Ministry. For twelve long weeks, he battled his way through interdepartmental mistrust and overly cautious questioning of witnesses. He went to therapy and learned all the letters and acronyms that summarised who he was in the post-war world. But then, the story came out that prisoners were being released in light of the war crimes tribunal.

He tried for another week to pretend he was fine; he went out on calls and replied to messages from the families of victims. He booked extra therapy sessions and told the team lead that he needed to take a leave. A week, he promised. Two, tops.

He never went back.

Meanwhile, Draco fell easily into the life of a semi-important beat reporter for the various magical sports teams of the British Isles. He paid for his own travel and quickly became enamoured with the elite nature of being a journalist for professional teams. Those who liked him revered his ability to spin a loss. Those who didn’t would let themselves go on record just to try and confuse him. He spun them into hilarious narratives that the readers loved. He quickly became a favourite among the coaches, and even the players who couldn’t stand him tended to give him a pass when their teams were involved in a big story.

He heard about Potter quitting his Auror career through the grapevine—well, through Pansy, who heard everything and told everyone. A misplaced sense of nobility wound its way into Draco’s spine when he heard; though he’d never admit it to anyone living, he felt a bit guilty about how he’d left things at the Ministry. Partly, he knew the guilt was centred around the fact that he’d still not made any sort of an attempt at reconciliation with the Gryffindor faction of his Hogwarts peers. It was a fact that made his therapist’s lip twitch at him in frustration regularly.

More importantly, though, Draco knew that Potter had never been cut out for Auror life. He could have told anyone that; if he’d been given the chance, he might have been able to convince _Potter _of that before it made his life more difficult. Instead, he’d been rash and childish, literally running away.

For a week after learning the news, Draco ignored the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that he might be able to do something, some small thing, to help Potter out. He mostly ignored it because he didn’t know why he _wanted _to. Potter was hardly incapable of sorting out his own problems; his name alone would grant him entry to any field he desired. Yet, there was a small voice in the back of his mind telling Draco that Potter had no idea _what _he wanted and that feeling was so painfully familiar it made Draco ache.

Finally, after too many sleepless nights, he wrote a very short letter, three sentences that were going to cost him far more in pride than they were in postage.

_McRay, _

_ You may want to reach out to Harry Potter. He’s between jobs. He was an excellent Seeker in school and could be good for reserves. _

_Regards,_

_Malfoy _

He sent it off before he could change his mind and three months later, when the England reserve team announced it’s new fall roster, he refused to let the little seed of satisfaction that wheedled its way into his stomach take root. He squashed it down heartily and never said another thing to anyone about that letter.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

_Hogwarts, Present Day _

During lunch on the first day, Harry sat at the opposite end of the long staff table from Malfoy. For the rest of the week, he did his best to avoid the blond-haired man who hadn’t changed physically in the decade since they’d left school. What he could not avoid, however, was hearing the way Malfoy spoke, with a soft sort of seriousness and low tones, always offering things that were ‘only in my opinion’. As the orientation got underway and changes to the rules were made, he qualified every addition with ‘if I examine my own thoughts’. He seemed to be either hiding or dispelling of his usual black-and-white temperament and it was slowly driving Harry insane.

Finally, as the whole staff stood listening to Professor Grubbly-Plank babble on about how to protect the forest from the students and the students from the forest, Harry snapped. They were standing at the edge of the pumpkin patch, gazing into the dark foliage, when Malfoy cleared his throat and raised a meek hand that halted the conversation.

“In my experience,” Malfoy began when called upon, “the forest is only harmful to those who wish it harm.”

“Quite true,” Professor Grubbly-Plank replied cheerily.

“Oh for the love of…” Harry mumbled, though apparently not as quietly as he’d meant to.

“Sorry, Professor Potter?” Malfoy asked, a hint of annoyance just touching the edge of his gentle hum.

“What are you on about, Malfoy? We all know that your ‘experience’ in the forest is hardly innocent.”

Malfoy turned to him with an icy glare. “Nor is yours, _Professor_ Potter. I fail to see your point.”

“My_ point_, Malfoy, is that you may have all these people fooled, but you need to not forget that_ I _am here this year. And I know you. I know the real you.”

“The real me?” Malfoy sneered. “The one you decided you knew at fifteen? The _fifteen-year-old _me? Who had not even begun to understand the world, nor fought a war? That one?”

“Don’t you even start talking to me about the battle, you hypocritical bastard,” Harry growled, ignoring the shocked glances of his fellow teachers.

A pointed _ahem_ from the side of the circle silenced them, though they continued to glare at each other, hands hovering over wand pockets and daggers in their eyes.

“Gentlemen,” Professor Flitwick said gently. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to let Wilhelmina here finish her description of the new fauna she found. It may be prudent to us all.”

As the rest of the staff turned gratefully back to the lecture, Malfoy grabbed him by the arm and spun him away from the crowd. “Are we going to do this all year?”

“Let me go.”

“Not until you agree to stop,” Malfoy hissed. “Can’t we just get through this year? I earned my place here, same as you.”

“Earned your place?” Harry jeered.

“Sod off. McGonagall invited you here without your N.E.W.T.s, same as me. Whether you like it or not, we’re on equal ground here Potter.”

“Look. I won’t seek you out,” Harry allowed. “But I’m not going to stay silent while you… do your little act.”

Malfoy sighed, releasing his arm. “I guess I didn’t expect anything more.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry exploded. “I don’t owe you anything.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched; he seemed to be biting back his words. He started stomping away before turning back and sneering, “Tell yourself whatever you need to to get through the day, _Potter_.”

Harry had to fight the urge to reach out and strangle the man by the hood of his robes. Instead, he turned on his heel and ran all the way back up the castle. He was out of breath by the time he found himself in the office again.

“I told you, Potter,” McGonagall said before he even got a word out of his stuttering lungs. “You can resign.”

“I don’t… we’re going to keep fighting.”

“That will be unfortunate. You could, of course, also try growing the _hell _up.”

“Excuse me?” Harry replied, slightly shocked.

“Potter. You are not a child. Nor are you my student. As the young people say these days… suck it up. We don’t get to love everyone we work with. Are you seriously back in my office less than a week after I told you to get over it the first time? Now take this.”

“Well… I mean… wait, what is this?”

“Flying training schedule. Your job, remember?”

Harry inhaled sharply and looked down at his page. “The first years start right away?”

“Yes. Mr Wood’s doing, a few years ago when he was the interim coach.”

“Professor, I—”

“Out, Potter.”

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

_ Three Years Earlier_

“Malfoy!” Sam shouted, doing the dangerous lean back in her office chair that had more than once resulted in her collapsing to the ground. It was funny when it happened, but it simultaneously made it very hard to take her seriously when she put on her gruff, ‘I’m an old fashioned, serious reporter’ voice.

“Got a scoop for you!” she continued.

Draco smirked. He’d eat his Quick-Quotes Quill if the story she was about to throw him was actually any sort of scoop. In two years at the paper, he’d never written anything that he hadn’t already heard about in the society pages.

“It’s Potter,” she added, standing up. “He’s injured. Word on the street is he’s left the team and he’s going into business at George Weasley’s shop…”

“Word on what street?” Draco quipped, earning him a glare that he just laughed at. “Why is that even news? He was on the _reserves_. He played like, what, three regulation games?”

“Well, yeah, but… he’s _Potter_. Plus, he was going to be moving up this season.”

“This season, and the last two,” Draco scoffed. Sam looked like she was very close to murdering him and he was too tired to argue anymore. He kicked himself upright and gathered up his notebook and pen. “Fine, fine. I’m going. How long?”

“Ten inches. Make sure you get a quote.”

“A quote.”

“A quote,” Sam insisted.

By the time he made it to Hogsmeade via the Floo, the sun was already low in the sky. He’d forgotten how much faster Scotland moved into fall than England. Another week, and they’d be getting snow. He smiled to himself. He sort of missed this place.

“Hello?” he called into the nearly empty shop, hunting for the red-headed owner or else the subject of his story.

“Malfoy,” Potter scowled, emerging from a back office with a tea in his hand and a sour expression. His foot was in a cast that stretched up to his knee. “That didn’t take long. Suppose I have Sam to thank for that.”

Draco shrugged. “I just go where I’m sent. Got a comment for the story?”

“No, so go away. I definitely don’t have the patience for this today.”

“I don’t know what you’ve got your back up about,” Draco huffed. “It can hardly come as a surprise that I’m here.”

“You don’t already have the story?” Potter replied darkly.

Draco tilted his head in response. He didn’t like being caught unaware.

“Well,” Potter sneered. “That’s a refreshing change of pace.”

With that, he turned and walked away without another word. Draco would later insist that he’d had no choice but to follow him; the first rule of journalism, he would argue, is always following your source.

The back room was a cramped space, full of colourful boxes and small whirling objects that flew over their heads. A desk was shoved in the corner, piled high with files and papers, more boxes perched precariously near the edge. Potter had hobbled over to the desk and sat down by the time he noticed Draco was also there.

“You can’t be back here,” he said wearily. “I’m not giving you a comment. Not after that last article you wrote. Sod off. Tell them to send someone else.”

“There _is _no one else,” Draco replied. “There’s only me. You’re stuck.”

Potter actually laughed, a short, cryptic sound. “No fucking kidding,” he returned.

Draco’s brow furrowed. “Uh, you… okay, and everything?”

Potter’s eyes snapped to his and he looked murderous. “You really have no fucking boundaries, do you? Does this _look _okay?” he shouted, sticking his leg out from behind the desk.

“Well, no, but… Quidditch. It’s dangerous.”

“Made more so by bigoted, arrogant twats who decide to try _illegal _manoeuvres in the air during a routine pre-season _friendly _game.”

Draco cleared his throat, looking at the cast, notebook in hand. “Are we on the record?”

“We most certainly are _bloody _well not! Do you know who did this, Malfoy? Any _clue _what your little editor shoved you into? Or no, wait. You don’t ask questions, do you? Just butt your way in without invitation. You just go where you are sent. Always have.”

Draco felt the words like a slap, and was walking toward Potter before he even noticed his feet moving. “Excuse me?” he hissed.

Potter was on his feet, formidable despite his hobbled leg. He stalked out from behind the desk and advanced on Draco. “You _heard _me. This little ‘accident’ has cost me a career. A _second _career.”

“You want to talk about ending careers?” Draco shouted.

“Don’t even start.”

Draco took a deep breath and tried to pull back a mantle of professionalism. “Look, Potter. I know we do not get along. I am not asking to be your mate. I just need a comment from you about the… incident. Then I’ll leave.”

Potter, unwilling to give up that easily, stepped two steps closer and wrenched the sleeve of his robes up, revealing a deep, angry slash that was shiny with stasis bandage.

“I know you’re the reason I got the reserve position,” he hissed. “They waited two years to get to business. You should fire whatever cronies you have tailing me. Their attempt to knock me off my broom in was clumsy.

“What?” Draco replied, confused mouth agape.

“Don’t pretend. Your little Death Eater friend also did this,” he said, pointing to his leg. “After I knocked him left so he wouldn’t go after any other member of my team. And the fact that _you_, of all people, are here asking me about it just goes to show how insane this world has become. You’re not getting your bloody comment. Get. Out.”

Draco opened his mouth, trying to think of a way to finish his job. Which meant that, when the punch came, his mouth was hanging open. His teeth rattled uncomfortably in their sockets and his face swung wildly away. His wand was in his hand before he could stop himself and Potter landed flat on his back, knocked off-kilter by both the hex and his immobilized foot. Draco looked down, cheek stinging and mouth agape as the gravity of what had just happened also occurred to Potter.

He grinned a sickening, satisfied grin.

“Well, Malfoy,” he hummed. “You’re done.”

* * *

Draco backed out of the office before he could do anything else and walked himself straight into the floo to Dr Stenhouse’s office.

“Well?” she repeated when he didn’t reply, holding the ice she’d given him against his face. “Any thoughts?”

“I think the _why _is perfectly obvious,” he grumbled.

“It happened because you still haven’t had a conversation with Harry Potter about what actually happened during the battle. Or about any of it,” she answered patiently.

“I don’t know how you envision this ‘talk’ going,” Draco snapped. “This was me trying to do my _job _around him. And you want me to waltz into his life and say, ‘hey, Harry Potter, fancy a chat about the worst year of your life, with me, a man you hate? Oh, and by the way, I got you the job because I was trying to apologise, not so I could have some sort of delayed revenge’?”

“I don’t think he hates you.”

“He literally just _punched_ me,” he retorted.

“Not hate,” she insisted with a pointed stare. “Anger. Fear. Projections.”

“Yes, projections of _hate_,” he whined. He was calming down, which was unfortunate; any second now, he was going to start to cry, rounding out his day of embarrassing bullshit.

“I can facilitate the conversation?”

“I… don’t want that. I have an idea.”

“Why does that not comfort me, Mr Malfoy?” she said warningly. 

“No contact, I promise. Not going to hurt him. This was the stupidest thing I’ve done in a long time,” he glowered.

“Yes,” she answered. “I am aware.”

* * *

“Have you read the paper yet this morning?” Hermione asked as she flew into the kitchen.

She had half her hair braided and her blouse was only half-buttoned. Harry was glad he’d been living here long enough that he was no longer shocked by his best friend and her perpetually late, half-dressed rampages. Ron held out a piece of toast that she shoved in her mouth, throwing the paper onto the table in the wake of her frenzy. She grabbed her travel mug from the counter and pulled various objects from the fridge. “Obviously not,” Ron replied, amused.

“Page seven,” she said simply. “Read it out loud.”

“Uh,” Ron started, picking up the paper and rifling through. “Oh. This one? Okay…”

“What is it?” Harry interrupted, craning his neck to try and see the paper. Hermione shushed him and gestured to Ron.

“_As the rumours have suggested, I am in fact resigning my post, effective immediately. I do so simply because it is time for me to explore new horizons. As I leave _The Prophet_, it is with a sense of clarity that I have never felt before. In light of recent events, however, I have a few words before I go.” _

“What?” Harry demanded. “Who is this?”

“Shh,” Hermione insisted.

“_I know not all readers were happy with my appointment. It is with some trepidation that I would like to address the allegations against me. It is my hope that by using my public voice, others like me will find the courage to step out of the shadows. _

"_As someone who freely admits his part in the war, I want all readers to know that the decisions I made at that time are ones I will regret for the rest of my life. By the time I realised how wrong I was, it was almost too late. I vowed, even then, to never forget how dangerous power and prejudice are. I will never stop working to redeem myself. It is important for me that you know this, however; I never took the mark. I walk through this life with only the shadow of my deeds tarnishing my soul. I cannot account for how I acted in my school days. I know that the world is not forgiving. I can only hope that those I wronged when I was a foolish child have found some peace. _

"_More importantly, I have never used this position for anything nefarious, nor have I ever compromised my journalistic integrity. In this job, I watched sport heal our world. I watched unity and friendly competition create a safe place for people who are still grieving what was lost. I know the power of helping each other; I know that, though it may seem silly to those on the outside, to play a game like Quidditch takes great trust for your fellow human. I am therefore disgusted and heart-broken at the actions of a former school friend of mine. His actions towards Seeker Potter were irredeemable and I am comforted by the League’s decision to uphold his banishment from the team._

"_Ten years ago, we stood at the edge of a cliff that I could not see at the time. I was fortunate to survive when others did not. I am not asking for your forgiveness. It is not yours to give. _

"_In great respect, I thank all those that have made my time here at the paper so wonderful. _

"_Draco Malfoy, former Quidditch league and sport reporter." _

“I think you’re going to have to admit that he didn’t do it, Harry,” Hermione said, kissing him on the head and then grabbing her bag from Ron, who stood up to follow her to the Floo with a shrug.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

_Present Day_

Harry blinked, and it was almost Halloween; flying lessons were in full swing, stuck in the Quidditch pitch because he had decided they would be. DADA classes were hilarious and well-attended, loved by most students and giving Harry such peaceful sleep that he felt more rested than he had in years. The smallest of thorns in his side was that, no matter how hard he tried, he just kept _noticing_ Draco Malfoy. His white-blond hair stood out in a sea of black robes, especially as the sun started disappearing behind dark fall clouds. The most irritating of these moments was when Malfoy stood at the window of the clock tower, gazing out over the hills like an old, mad king. Harry always saw him, since the tower and the pitch were adjacent, but it wasn’t until a student pointed out that it was the third lesson in a row where Professor Malfoy had been in the tower that Harry decided he needed to know why. 

He climbed the stairs after practice in a quick double-step that left him out of breath. He came to the top of the tower he hadn’t been on in years and found Malfoy ignoring the footsteps, head resting on a nest of his arms against the wall. 

“So you know how you've been standing on this parapet for about three hours now? Creeping out the first years and all that?” Harry announced. “I'm wondering if you are also feeling like a Victorian lady ghost. Because that’s what they’ve decided what you are.” 

“That’s the laziest mocking of my hair I've ever heard,” Malfoy shot back gloomily, not lifting his head. 

“You alright?” 

“Why the fuck do you care?” 

Harry bristled, sighed at the fact that he had bristled, and shoved McGonagall’s words deeper down in his chest as he icily replied. “It’s just a little hard to be out on the pitch and keep seeing _you_ in _this_ particular tower. I assume I don’t need to elaborate on the why.” 

Malfoy’s head snapped up to glare at Harry for a moment, his arms limp at his sides. “I almost told you why I was here,” he spat. “Don’t know what came over me.” 

He spun to head back down the stairs, and Harry’s arm reached out of its own volition to grab his elbow. “Wait. Let me back up. I’m not here to… check on you. Or even chastise you. Not really. I’m… well, I came to apologise, actually.” 

“Apologise.” 

“Yeah. A truce, if you’re interested.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t fucking know,” Harry admitted, sighing. 

Malfoy smirked. “So the Headmistress finally got to you, too, huh?” 

“Maybe I just came to the conclusion that we can hardly work together like this, and if she’s not going to release me from my contract, then I’d have to figure out some other way to work with you.” 

“Did she give you the ‘allies in times of peace’ speech?” Malfoy quipped, arms crossing over his chest and eyebrow sneaking up past his hairline in a stance that was far too familiar to be neutral. “Or was it the one about letting the past stay that way for the sake of the small minds? I’ve had both.” 

Harry turned away from the wind, which was whipping around them and making his eyes stream. He sat against the back where you could look out across the grounds through the embrasures. He took a deep breath, exhaled. 

“Do you think they ever used those for actual arrows?” he asked, trying to reset the tension in his shoulders. 

Malfoy smoothed down his hair from where it had been dishevelled in the wind, grinning as he shook his head and came to sit down against the wall as well. 

“You’re very fucking weird, Potter,” he allowed, tone suspiciously free of its usual derision. 

Harry decided to count it as a win and pushed boldly onward. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old article, bent on the edges and starting to yellow. He held it out to Malfoy, who glanced down for a moment and then looked at Harry with such a look of shock that Harry may have laughed were he not so uncertain of what he was doing. 

“I know it wasn’t you. I knew that a long time ago,” he admitted quietly. “I’m, uh, sorry I punched you.” 

“I mean, no you aren’t. But that’s okay. I deserved at least that much from you. I’m sorry I hexed you.” 

Harry smiled boldly. He tried to make his tone lighter when he continued. “We can’t keep fighting; McGonagall will murder us both.”

“So then, what do you propose?”

“I’ll stay out of your way and won’t interrupt your lessons with practices when I can help it,” Harry offered. “In return, you make me healing salves for when we need them. I asked Pomfrey, but she said it was technically in your job description. 

“It is. I have some already made if you want them.” 

“And help me run the duelling club,” Harry added. Malfoy nodded slowly, seeming as convinced as Harry was that this idea would end well. “I’m sorry for the Ministry, too, by the way. There’s no excuse for…what I did.”

“What you did being ‘having me fired by lying about my character’?” Malfoy returned. “Just so we’re clear.”

“That. And the other things,” Harry conceded, bracing for the rancour. 

Instead, he burst out in a light, simple laugh that Harry had never heard before. Lazily, Harry let his head fall to the right, to look at his compatriot sidelong in confusion. 

“Yes, fine,” Malfoy agreed. “Let’s stop this back and forth. I promise you, I regret most of what I did before age nineteen. Well, except maybe for the badges.” 

“The badges.” 

“Those were pretty hilarious, you have to admit,” Malfoy smirked. 

Harry laughed his own short laugh, shook his head, and stuck out a hand. “Fine. Guess I can admit that. So. Truce?” 

Malfoy studied his hand for a moment, a clear lack of trust written into every muscle in his coiled form. Eventually, he nodded and shook Harry’s hand for a fraction of a second, his grip firm and sure, but not lingering. 

“Now please leave me to my parapet,” he declared, hoisting himself up. 

Harry laughed again. “Fine. But don’t get frostbite. That would be embarrassing.”

* * *

The words may have been spoken, but Harry resolutely attempted to ignore Draco for a few extra weeks. It was well into the winter before Harry’s natural curiosity got the better of him. He just didn’t really understand who Draco Malfoy was. 

His students seemed to like him; they would often turn up at Harry’s office hours gushing about him or walked into his classes full of new potions information they were dying to share. He was helpful to the other professors, with no request treated as unreasonable. Yet he was moody, prone to disappearing. Still, it was clear he was making some sort of effort. Malfoy was tersely polite at meals and staff meetings. He stopped going out of his way to avoid Harry on the grounds. He once even said hello and asked how Harry was when they passed each other on the stairs of the owlery. Harry tried to be pleasant back and felt the ice and mistrust start to thaw just enough for him to notice how hard Malfoy was trying to avoid angering anyone at all. It seemed sort of exhausting; a small spark inside of him wanted Harry to push some sort of reaction out of Malfoy again, as he had at the forest that first day. This newer version, the one who made himself smaller in the presence of others, was disconcerting and sad. 

One day, in early December, Harry ran into Malfoy in the staff room, sitting with a stack of papers. He’d cleared his throat as Harry pulled down a mug to make himself some tea, a ward against the chill of his own office. 

“Team ready for this week?” he asked quietly. 

“Hm? Sorry?” Harry said, genuinely having barely heard. For a moment, Malfoy’s gaze darkened before he seemed to catch himself, repeating his question. Harry smiled wryly at the thought of how this Quidditch game was going to go. 

“Nope,” he shrugged. “These captains have no idea what they are doing. Luckily, that’s not my job. Not anymore. I just have to make sure they don’t die or break the rules.” 

“A shame,” Malfoy replied, smiling a small smile. “You were always quite a good leader. It was bloody annoying.” 

Harry laughed in spite of himself and, on impulse, decided to settle into the table with his tea instead of fleeing. Malfoy looked up in surprise but cleared a space for Harry and picked up his quill again. 

“What are you marking?” Harry asked, fishing around for a neutral conversation topic; it was not an easy feat. Harry was relatively sure this was the first conversation the two of them had had that was occurring in neutral territory. The feeling was very strange. 

Malfoy sighed dramatically. “Second-year theory papers,” he groaned. “They’re dreadful. I have no idea why I even set them. They’re unnecessary.” 

Harry chuckled. 

“Listen to this one; a bezoar is for being a bezoar in potions for poisons. Essentially? Right. But semantically? Painful.” 

Harry laughed again, surprising himself and apparently, also Malfoy, whose cautious smile was wavering and trepidacious. Harry tried to find a way to avoid the question he wanted to ask, but felt the Gryffindor bubble up inside of him. Almost against his will, he stepped over the edge onto dangerous ground. 

“So," Harry began. "You ready to tell me why you’re always in that tower?” 

Malfoy’s smile disappeared, replaced with a wary stare that was far more familiar and therefore, felt far safer as well. He shook his head tersely. 

“You spend a lot of time up there," Harry pushed. 

“Yes, thank you, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, though he seemed like the tone caused him physical pain. 

The name, though, was enough. Something inside of Harry snapped. He wasn’t great at doing things halfway. If they were going to be civil, they needed to _actually_ try. He bit back his automatic retort and templed his fingers over his tea. He closed his eyes for a split second and tried to calm himself down.

“_Harry_,” he insisted. 

“Sorry?” Malfoy replied. 

“It’s ‘Harry’. No one calls me by my surname. It makes me uncomfortable. Even the students only call me ‘Professor’ or ‘sir’. I don’t mind calling you Malfoy, but _my_ name is Harry.” 

Malfoy studied him for a long moment, long enough that Harry—who did not generally enjoy close examination—squirmed. Then he nodded a small, resigned nod. A gentle shift occurred before Harry’s eyes; Malfoy stopped looking like a challenge. He seemed, in that moment, far smaller. Far more human. 

“Not Malfoy,” he allowed carefully. “My students call me Draco. Or Professor Draco.” 

“Seriously?” Harry smirked. 

“Surprising?” Draco asked, returning to his warm, wry grin, unsettling Harry slightly since he was suddenly seeing a person in front of him rather than his Slytherin nemesis. He tried to keep his own grin neutral, though inappropriate laughter was fighting its way out of his throat 

“What?” Malfoy teased, misreading Harry’s silence as disbelief. “Did you expect me to maintain my proud family name? Didn’t mean to disappoint.” 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean—” 

“Relax, Harry,” Malfoy said. “I’m only teasing." Malfoy's smile broadened. "Now that I'm thinking about it, I wonder how often you hated me because you just didn’t get my terribly dry wit?” 

“Likely often,” Harry laughed. “Draco,” he added, as an afterthought. 

Inexplicably, the name made his smile turn sour, sad. For the first time in his life, Harry waited patiently. It felt like there was something going unsaid, something he should wait for. 

“The tower is the last place I saw Snape,” Malfoy said quietly after a moment. He cleared his throat and met Harry's gaze. “This job is hard sometimes. It’s not…predictable. It doesn’t follow rules. You probably don’t understand why that makes me uncomfortable, since you’ve never followed a rule in your life.” 

Harry wanted to be defensive, but he realised at the last moment that Malfoy wasn’t finished. 

“Yes, well exactly,” Malfoy continued. “So, sometimes, I go to the tower to clear my head. I don’t much like my dungeon quarters. They feel too much like…home.” 

Harry opened his mouth, meaning to reply. He found he had no words. Instead, he reached out, pulled a paper from the pile, and picked up the spare quill that sat beside Malfoy’s inkwell. He read through the paper, correcting a few mistakes, then scrawled a small, dignified _A_ at the top. 

Draco chuckled as Harry returned it to the pile. 

“You’d better hope it earned that _Acceptable,_” he teased, picking up his own quill and returning to his marking.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

It was a few more weeks of silent neutrality, shared meals, and genial company before Harry started actually thinking of Malfoy as _Draco_.

By the time the Christmas Holidays arrived, he had to admit that they were almost friends; even Flitwick commented on how much better they seemed to be getting along. Harry couldn’t help but admit it. Despite every reason not to, he realised that he actually _liked_ spending time around Draco. They had very little in common, but found ways to stretch out hours of work in comfortable silence. Draco liked watching the teams practice and Harry soon started inviting him to fly, leading a team through drills and generally helping with the coaching. Being two of the youngest professors at the school was difficult, and they both seemed to realise at the same time that they could treat each other as allies. It was strange and much was left unsaid, but decades of experience and hate turned out to be easier to bury than either had expected.

When he got to the Burrow the week before Christmas, Harry felt listless and exhausted. He reasoned that it was because the last week of teaching before a holiday had been more difficult than any day as an Auror, with students hopped up on too much sugar and not enough sleep and the impending excitement of trips home and holiday traditions. There was the added problem of Harry being unprepared for the quiet of the Burrow before everyone else was also home.

When Ron returned each night, Harry would drag him to the fields to fly. During the day, he slept too much and tried to meet Hermione’s ever-present demand that he write a book by sitting with a blank notebook. He bounced Rose in his lap and fed scraps of turkey to Crookshanks, who was even grumpier than he’d been in August. The dinners at the cacophonous table that week brought Harry more joy than normal, the bickering and the noise welcome shifts in his routine silence. And yet, when he went to bed each night, he found himself dreaming of a parapet. Of blond hair and silvery eyes. Of moments of quiet that meant more than any words he had ever spoken to anyone.

By the time the twenty-third rolled around, he was actually missing the monotony of the castle, where predictability reigned. His subconscious agreed, but since he had to be here until at least until after Christmas lunch, Harry felt impending doom creep up on him.

Finally unable to stand it, he called Lou for the first time in many months, using her emergency home number and prompting her to appear in the living room of the Burrow a short time later in alarm. He handed her a coffee and coaxed her into the usually abandoned sunroom. She calmed down after ten minutes of general catch up, but when she put her mug down and looked at him, Lou was wearing her Serious Therapist face.

“Okay, Potter. Out with it. Something is wrong.”

"There… there's nothing really wrong. Well, I mean. There’s always something wrong, Lou,” he announced, unsure where the words had come from. Knowing the direction his well-meaning therapist would take with that, he backpedalled. “No, wait. I'm fine. I'm excellent, actually. Except. Well, I'm having weird dreams again."

“The same weird dreams?”

“Unfortunately, nope.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Fun.”

Harry laughed. “Exactly.”

“Well… out with it. I can tell by your face that you've already worked out what they're about.”

Harry glared at her for a fraction of a second before standing up, placing his coffee gingerly on the table, and pacing over to the desk where a card from a Godchild sat, a picture of a house and three smiling faces in scribbled crayon.

“Do you have kids?”

“No,” she said impatiently, arching her brow.

He avoided her expression, turning back to the desk and picking up various knickknacks. He ignored her intense glare, which he was now able to feel on his back. “Thanks for coming, Lou. I know it’s almost Christmas. Wait… why do I call you Lou? Shouldn’t I call you Doctor something?”

“You’re the only one I let call me Lou. Stop avoiding the question.”

“Seriously?”

“Harry,” she said warningly.

“I should call you by your proper title. That’s not right.”

“Do you even remember my surname, Harry? Doctor….”

Harry grinned at her from his place by the window. “Something… something to do with a house?”

“Close enough, I suppose," she sighed, returning his grin, though in a muted, professional way. "So tell me more about this person you’re avoiding talking about.”

Harry paused. She always managed to hit the nail on the head. “Lou…”

“Look,” she interrupted, her therapist veneer slipping just a little as she exhaled in a sound that was very close to exasperation. “You haven’t been in months and now you’ve called me at home during my vacation time. Obviously something is bothering you. So, if you aren’t going to ever open up to me, why am I here, Mr Potter?”

Harry sighed gently and sat back down. He cleared his throat and stared at his hands.

“I haven't liked anyone in a really long time,” he admitted finally.

Lou nodded, looking down at her clipboard. It didn't matter. Harry had spent a lot of time studying her expressions. As he had known she would, she had immediately picked up on what he _wasn’t saying_.

“But you keep telling me you date,” she challenged.

“I do,” he insisted, looking up at her. “I go out with people. I go on _dates_. But…”

“But?” she pushed.

“Okay,” he restarted, “you know that feeling that you just… want to be near someone. Because you like them in an indefinable way? It’s like… a calm. That is also a spine-tingling, stomach-to-your-ankles sort of thing? That feeling that you have to turn and look at one more time before you walk away, even at the risk of being caught?” Lou just looked at him. “Yeah. You don't have to answer. I know you aren't going to. It doesn't matter. I can tell you know what I mean. It's been ages since I felt that. Maybe even since…”

He sighed again, feeling pathetic.

“Ginny?” Lou asked gently. They didn’t often broach the subject of his broken engagement. It usually just led to Harry shutting down.

“Ginny,” he confirmed.

Lou took a breath, tapping her pencil on the board before she continued. “Harry, did you end up going out with that man from the team? I know that was… a question for you.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered.. “No. I mean, yes, I did. But. It didn’t… continue. I didn’t realise I’d never told you. I don’t let you dig into relationship stuff very often. When we were talking about Ginny, it was all… war stuff. But yeah, it did confirm the, uh, thing. That I'm… not straight."

“Okay,” Lou said with a gentle smile. “Just wanted to make sure. Not straight is enough for me.”

“This person… he’s a he. If that, you know. If that helps.”

“I think it would help more if you could tell me why it’s bothering you so much that you like him?” She continued. “I mean, if it isn’t that he’s a he, then what’s the problem.”

“Lou,” Harry said, leaning forward to rest his head on his bent knees. “Lou, there are just so, _so_ many problems with me liking them, and absolutely none of them are that he is a he.”

* * *

Draco fought for the three days before Christmas to relax all on his own, to not need the emergency appointment he’d made with at Dr Stenhouse just in case. But, by the twenty-third, the reality was that he wasn’t sleeping. His friends all knew Christmas was usually bad for him and they were giving him lots of space; this year, leaving the castle took on some added weight that he could not yet name.

He hadn’t gone home for many years, trying to avoid the awkward conversations about when he would get married or when he would move back home. This year, he felt very tempted to go back just so he could stand in the wine cellar and remember what parts of him he was letting fall away, remember who he was before he fell apart. Luckily, Dr Stenhouse was able to talk him out of that particular destructive decision, sending him home with new breathing exercises and absolutely no answers as to what was making him feel so discombobulated.

Since it was Pansy and Theo’s turn to host, Draco’s traditional Orphan’s Christmas quickly turned into a shit show; unsurprisingly, he also ended up the most drunk. The past four months of being reserved and polite finally exploded out of him in the rather cliched form of many, many shots of tequila. He woke up the next day with glitter in his hair and paint on his cheeks, and no memory as to why. According to Pansy, they were the result of him insisting that they decorate him like a Christmas tree and the efforts of Blaise’s drunken Charm work. He took a two-hour bath and still found glitter in various places for the next three days.

Pansy made a large brunch for the whole crew, an oddly sentimental gesture on her part; as a good pure-blood daughter, she was an excellent cook. Which of course meant she usually refused to do it. Draco scarfed down more pieces of stuffed French toast than was likely wise, chasing the powdered sugar down with latte after latte he made on the fancy muggle machine that was his favourite part of Pansy and Theo's house.

Theo laughed at him when he got up to get his third. "Pansy," he laughed. "I think perhaps we're ready for gifts."

"I thought we weren't doing gifts," mumbled Blaise, whose head was still settled solidly on the table. He was, as usual, more hungover than the rest of them. Seeing him so miserable made Draco inappropriately sentimental, and he wound his hand around Blaise’s shoulders, leaning into his friend and making him groan in misery.

"We aren't,” Pansy replied, carrying a large bag and box back into the kitchen. “But Theo and I have news. And we figured telling you while you opened pretty things would prevent you from hexing us.

"Oh Merlin," Blaise groaned, sitting up to accept his package. "You've procreated, haven't you."

"Good lord, no," Pansy grimaced.

Draco pulled down the paper on the large box he'd been handed and found his own very fancy muggle coffee machine.

"We're moving,” Theo announced as Draco let the paper fall to the ground.

"What?" Blaise and Draco said simultaneously.

“To America,” Pansy added.

Draco was still looking at the gift when the panic washed over him. He put it gently on the table and stood up unsteadily. He was on the back porch before Pansy caught up to him.

He promptly threw up.

"God, Draco," Pansy said gently, rubbing his back. "Must you always be so dramatic."

"No, I know, I'm sorry. I just…"

"Darling, it's Christmas and this is the first time you've thrown up. That's miraculous. Are you okay?"

"I don't know how the machine works. I'll break it."

Pansy looked at him long and hard before she laughed. "Well, my love. That is definitely worth having a panic attack over.”

“Shut up.”

She poked him in the side and he looked up. “Ahem. I'm sure _Potter_ will help you. He likely understands Muggle things, no?"

"…Potter?" Draco breathed.

Pansy gripped his shoulder gently. "Well, since you’re spending more time with him these days, given how much you've been talking about him in your letters lately?"

"I have not," Draco replied weakly.

"Mhmm. It's okay, you know. I wasn’t sure until you showed up at the house,” she pressed, leaning down and resting her head against his. “It's written all over your face. I'll try my hardest to get over it in the next few months. Just promise me you won't be insufferable like Blaise is with that Ginny woman."

Draco stiffened, pulling away from her. "Pansy, what are you talking about?"

"Darling, stop this. It's just a tad… pathetic? You obviously like him. I have a feeling it started to be obvious to you around Halloween? I know it's messy and stuff but honestly. What the hell is the point of living through what we did if we aren't going to get a little messy?"

Draco took her hand from his shoulder and stood up straighter, refusing to meet her eye. It was possible that she had figured it out, since she was his best friend. But it was equally possible that she had no idea what she was on about and was trying to trick him into admitting something.

"Pansy, enough," he said gruffly. "You're implication is unprofessional and untrue. Potter is a coworker whom I have managed not to murder."

"Oh, and that's _definitely_ miraculous. But if I know you the way you know I do, I'd suspect you're trying to convince yourself you _don't_ like him because it feels too sudden," she insisted. "But you realise it isn't, right? You've liked him since, like, third year. Maybe fourth. I get it—those tournament robes were fucking gorgeous. And not dying from a dragon? Hot."

"Pansy."

"If you'd had any inclination how gay you were then, you may have even managed to overcome your prejudice and sleep with him. But he wouldn't forgive you for being a Slytherin and you're very stubborn. So instead, we had all that war business."

Draco looked at her for the first time; he was shocked to find her leaning on the railing, eyes damp and a flush in her cheeks.

"Hey, Pans. Don't worry," he said quietly, reaching across her shoulders and leaning on her. "I'm not going to do anything about it. It's just a little crush. Probably just because we're the only ones under the age of 60 at the castle."

Pansy turned to him sharply. "What? No, Draco. Merlin, how did you manage to completely miss my point. We aren't 15, Draco. Go love someone. Go love the person your brain is _trying_ to love. You're Draco sodding Malfoy. You don't like about ninety percent of the people you meet. Just tolerating is already a feat. And from these stories you've been unintentionally telling us, you're doing way more than tolerating.”

Just as they had been doing since they were twelve years old, Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy stood in a terse standoff of love; they glared, each daring the other to refuse the violent care and affection that was being offered. Unlike when they were twelve, however, Draco very quickly gave in. He reached out and pulled her into a tight embrace. “You’re really leaving, aren’t you?” he whispered into her hair.

“Just for a little while, you big baby,” she replied, her voice catching just a tiny bit. “I feel a lot better about doing it now that you’re going to just get over yourself and go get Harry Potter into your bed.” She pulled back and arched her brow. “Right?”

“It’s not that easy,” Draco said miserably.

“Nothing ever is,” she shrugged. “That’s how you know it’s worth it.”

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

The return to the castle was more comforting to Draco than any job had ever been. Even the frigid wind and snowstorms could not drag him into a sulk. Everyone else was both stressed and confusingly lethargic. The darkness and cold of winter intermingled with the stress of exams and papers and too much marking. The post-holiday haze made everyone a touch more ornery than normal. 

Draco moved about his days in that first week of classes in the sort of daze he had experienced only once before; his world view had shifted, a tilt that made him feel rather discombobulated. Fortunately, he didn’t see Potter for the first three days. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to feel about that. 

Harry didn’t show up to meals, never appeared in the staff room in his customary desperate-for-tea stupor, and didn’t turn up at Draco’s table in the library each night with a stack of papers and a silent presence that Draco hadn’t realised he had grown to appreciate. In fact, if it weren’t for his students claiming otherwise, Draco would have been convinced that Potter hadn’t returned from the break at all. 

He waited patiently for Potter to appear. Pansy’s revelations were no longer keeping him up at night, as though he had just needed someone else to confirm what he already knew. Regardless of the truth within them, Draco was not a lovesick puppy, or a teenager with a crush. He was a grown-arse man whose sudden realisation of his emotions was embarrassing and required no additional attention than it was already getting in his subconscious. 

He ignored Potter’s absence, in fact, until the first Saturday in the January term when Quidditch practises were cancelled. The notice was innocuous, scribbled on parchment and tacked to the front hall notice board. But to Draco, who knew that cancelling Quidditch was an escalation that hadn’t been seen since the war, a dark and tiny panic set in; at breakfast, he worried at his plate until he was so obvious that Flitwick, sitting to his right, cleared his throat and looked at him pointedly. 

Draco smiled sheepishly, then summon his courage before asking, “Sorry, Filius. Just been a long week. I wonder, have you seen Professor Potter this week? Haven’t seen him around.” 

Filius chuckled, picking up his fork again. “Ah, yes. He’s fine. First year teaching and all that. Think he’s been holed up in his quarters marking. Nothing like the sheer and total panic of the first set of reports to set yourself up for being more organised, though. He’ll be fine.” 

“Hm,” Draco said, trying to keep his tone disinterested. Flitwick looked at him and smiled. “Well, I just wonder if I should pay him a visit. Mock him a little… or offer some help. I did that my first term, too.” 

“Third floor. Second door after the Charms room,” Flitwick said kindly. 

“Thanks, Filius.” 

“Just don’t let yourself get behind by helping him,” he warned with a knowing smirk. “Though I suppose you young folk do have to stick together, don’t you?” 

“I suppose,” Draco allowed, finishing his eggs. 

The trek up the stairs felt charged and heavy. He did _not_ have a plan. He didn’t know what it was going to be like to see Potter now that he was allowing himself to acknowledge what had been happening; that Harry’s small smiles warmed him in a complicated way. That his silent but constant presence in his life had become something of a mystery. That he was _worried_ about Harry Potter just because he hadn’t seen him in two weeks. 

When he found the room, he was unsurprised to find a nameplate outside; Potter would be fine with everyone knowing where his private quarters were. Draco knocked as loudly as he could before he lost his nerve and was therefore underprepared for the dishevelled Potter who opened the door; he was wearing striped pyjamas that looked about fifteen years old, a fluffy housecoat that had definitely been a gift, his hair was dishevelled beyond recognition, with a quill stuck behind his ear, and he looked exhausted. 

“Draco,” he declared, sounding surprised. 

“Just checking you’re alive,” Draco replied. 

“Barely,” Harry said with a wry grin. Draco swallowed. 

“Anything I can do to help?” 

“Got a Time-Turner that can take me back to October and _not_ get this behind in marking essays?” 

Draco chuckled. “Yeah, that’s a tough lesson to learn. In all this time you were helping me mark, you never thought to bring your own papers?” 

Harry’s grin grew wider. “I don’t even know.” 

“Well, in that case… wait, have you eaten?” 

“What is eating?” Harry quipped, tossing an eyebrow up that Draco was relatively sure he had not been able to arch two months earlier. 

“Oh dear,” Draco teased, letting his voice warm. “Okay, grab that pile and come with me.” 

“What?” Potter laughed. “Draco, I’m not even dressed.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Draco shrugged. “We’re taking the tunnels.” 

“The tunnels. You know about the tunnels?” 

Draco spun back to face him with a mocking look of shock. “Every self-respecting Slytherin knows about the tunnels by second year,” he said ominously. “The question is… how do _you_ know about the tunnels?” 

Harry, inexplicably, blushed and tightened his housecoat, before turning away and tossing a large stack of papers into an old leather bag. Without complaint, he followed Draco down to the end of the third floor corridor, through the hidden door in the tapestry, down the spiral tunnel, and out into the darker, cooler passage that led to his office. 

Inside, the fire was already roaring, charmed to turn on every morning against the damp chill of the dungeons in winter. Harry shivered, a small, subtle movement that he’d obviously tried to hide. Regardless, it caught Draco’s attention; almost dying more than once had made him far too attuned to the movements of everything around him. He wondered if that was a symptom he’d always have to endure. Harry, also used to danger, seemed to immediately notice Draco tense. 

“I get cold easily,” Harry said by way of explanation. “Louisa says it will likely never go away. Symptom of PTSD.” 

“Louisa?” Draco asked nonchalantly, puttering to his coffee cart and turning on the fancy machine. He put the lid on a covered tray, knowing the elves would soon provide them with pastries and scones, possibly even bacon if there had been some left over at breakfast. This tray, coaxed out of a former house-elf, had saved his life last winter, when the burden of planning lessons or watching potions meant he hadn’t eaten anything all day. 

“My therapist,” Harry explained, with just a hint of challenge in his tone. He clearly still anticipated mocking from Draco; he wanted to take away all the memories that made that true. For a moment, he was so focused on the sadness that Harry’s tone instilled in him that he didn’t hear his words. When they filtered through, Draco froze. 

“You… you have a therapist named Louisa?” 

Harry nodded. 

“Louisa Stenhouse?” 

Harry, who had been wandering about the new room, examining various objects around him and exploring the bookshelves, snapped his gaze back to Draco. “Yes?” he confirmed. 

Draco burst out laughing. Before Harry’s offended expression could transfer into angry words, Draco shoved his hair out of his face and sat heavily in his chair. “Harry, do you ever wonder if you and I are linked by some sort of bizarre, universal thread?” 

“What? What are you on about, Malfoy?” 

“Louisa Stenhouse is _my_ therapist,” he said, unable to contain his manic laughing any longer. 

Harry wavered between a few emotions. Finally, he seemed to settle on shared amusement. He sat down at Draco’s desk, in one of the large wingback chairs he’d stolen from his parents' house without telling them. Harry Potter looked ridiculously small in the oversized chair; when he curled his legs beneath him, dropping his bag to the floor, he looked younger and more vulnerable than Draco had seen him since they were in school. He turned in his chair back to the coffee cart quickly, hiding his reaction to the sight before he let his emotions get the better of him. 

“That’s a very fancy coffee thingy,” Harry remarked, seeming to have decided to just ignore the bizarre coincidence they’d just discovered. Draco decided he could pretend, too. Clearly, this wasn’t a thing they were talking about right now. 

“Pansy bought it for me because I loved hers so much,” Draco replied lovingly. “I was worried I wasn’t going to be able to figure it out. Filius did have to help me with the electric thingy, but other than that it's actually pretty easy.” 

“Well, you _are_ pretty smart,” Harry replied nonchalantly. Draco ignored him and put the next mug beneath the coffee maker’s nozzle. 

“Here,” he said, moving the tray to the desk. “Eat something before you die. I’ll help you mark your papers.” 

Harry lifted the cover and filled a plate before pausing. “Why?” he asked, puzzled. 

“Why what?” 

“Why help me?” 

“No idea,” Draco lied. 

“Hm,” Harry muttered, taking a bite of a maple scone and smirking. 

“What?” 

“You’re allowed to admit we’re friends, you know. I promise not to tell anyone.” 

Draco laughed and sat coffee in front of them both, settling into his chair and gesturing for Harry to pass over his bag. “I will if you will.” 

For the rest of the morning, they sat at the desk, marking paper after paper. The only time they spoke was to share ridiculous tidbits from student writing, replying with a small laugh or a groan. The warmth from the fire and the light from the lanterns left a companionable fuzziness that lulled Draco into complete comfort. He stretched his feet out under the desk until they rested on the chair beside Harry, which made him start. Draco, laughing at the small jump, earned a tiny glare that sent electricity down his spine and made him snap back to the paper in front of him. A moment later, when Harry silently poked the arch of his socked foot making Draco jump in return, he looked up to find an adorable smile on his face. 

“Retaliation is my middle name,” Harry muttered, ignoring Draco’s protests. 

Many hours passed before Harry finally stoppered his ink and shovelled the essays back into his bag. “Holy fucking Merlin,” he announced. “They’re done. Draco. Fucking _thank you_.” 

Draco shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.” 

Harry’s face melted a tiny bit, into a soft expression Draco hadn’t seen before. “It really is, though. You know that right?” 

“Harry, relax. I was in your shoes last year. This job can be hard. Don’t hide when it is. Ask for help.” 

Harry’s face fell and he stood up abruptly. “That’s not what I mean, Draco,” he said darkly. He moved toward the door, seemed to change his mind, and sat back down. “I meant, it’s a big deal that you and I just sat for many hours without fighting. We worked together and we joked around. We are _friends_. You have to admit that’s sort of miraculous.” 

Draco stared at Harry and stayed silent. He agreed, but he didn’t trust himself to say so. His throat was dry, the hair on the back of his neck was prickling, and he was sure if he opened his mouth, all of his emotions were going to tumble out and all over Potter. When Harry stuck out his hand, however, he smiled and took it firmly; Draco let his palm linger, warm and dry, holding against Harry, whose fingers were chilled from many hours of writing. He let himself grip a little tighter, let his elbow fall to the desktop, moved his thumb just enough to feel the back of Harry’s hand beneath the pad. Before it could get awkward, he forced himself to let go. 

“Have a good afternoon, Harry,” he said lowly, averting his gaze by pulling his own papers from the corner of his desk. Harry stood there, frozen for just a moment before he left, with words trapped between them that may forever go unsaid.

* * *

Harry left Draco’s office in a trance. He was halfway down the corridor, standing in front of the tunnel, before he managed to convince himself that he hadn’t just imagined that whole thing. Heat had flooded his cheeks, his whole right arm was numb; had Draco simply lunged at him and pounced, it would have felt less intimate than that handshake. Unbidden, the words he’d spoken to Louisa bounced around his mind; he needed just one more glance, even if it meant he was solidly caught. 

He spun around and marched back down the hall. 

The fist he used to pound on the door was still tingling from where Draco’s palm had lingered. Months had passed since his apology in the tower. Years had passed since Draco’s article. A decade had passed since he had had any real reason to hate each other. No doubt it would be complicated, no doubt they would face judgement. But he was starting to think that perhaps he didn’t care; he was Harry Potter. He was reckless. He was daring. And he was sure as hell not going to let a little public opinion stop him from reaching out and taking the opportunities he’d been granted by living through death, not once, but twice. 

Draco opened the door with a confused expression, clearly concerned by the vehemence of the knocking. He looked tired and sad, such a strange disconnect from the way Harry had left him a few moments earlier that Harry’s stomach dropped to his feet; he had never been more sure about his theories than he was in this moment. He was right. He knew it. 

“Harry,” Draco announced, shocked. “Did you forget something?” 

“Yes,” Harry said breathlessly. “You asked before if I thought we were linked. By a thread.” 

“I… yeah, I did,” Draco replied, perplexed. 

“I forgot to tell you, we are,” Harry said simply. “I’ve known it for years. We _are_. It just took me a long time to figure out why. I was mad at you for so long. But I’ve grown up. So have you. I realised over Christmas… not much of it was actually your fault. Just like it wasn’t my fault. We both make really shitty choices sometimes, don’t we? You didn’t actually do anything to me and I’ve been ignoring all the evidence I’ve had that you’d changed.” 

“Well, yeah, but you had every right to—” 

“Hush,” Harry interrupted, holding up a hand. “So yeah, that’s my point. You and I _are_ linked by a universal thread. Why else have we ended up entangled, even after Hogwarts? You were the first wizard I met. The first. I thought I hated you, but I don’t.” 

“You don’t.” 

“I haven’t for… a long time. There’s so much we need to talk about, Draco. And I _can’t_. I can’t talk to you because every time I try, you smile or you chuckle,” Harry whimpered. “You make a lame quip or you get frustrated about some tiny, stupid thing.” 

“I’m… sorry?” 

“I can’t talk to you about the things that made me hate you when you do _those_ things, because, at that point, I just want to freaking pin you down and not let you up until I’ve wiped the smirk off your face. With my mouth. Which is really complicated, isn’t it?” 

Draco, for the first time in ages, did not have a comeback. His hands fell to his sides and he stared at the floor. Harry took the opportunity to step forward, into Draco’s office, reaching out to hold open the door from behind where he stood. 

“It’s also very simple, though, isn’t it?” he muttered, taking another step. “Since that’s what you want too.” 

“Harry, don’t. It’s too…” 

“Hey, Draco?” Harry interrupted. “I forgot something.” 

He reached out and took Draco by the hand, pulling him forward until the door fell from his grasp and rested gently on Draco’s back instead. He waited for Draco to flee, to stop him. But he didn’t, so Harry kept pulling and Draco stopped resisting. When he finally had their bodies flush, trapping Draco’s hand between them, he smiled. 

“I’m not sure you know what this means,” Draco frowned. “If you kiss me now, we can’t go back. Even to the hate.” 

“I know,” Harry whispered. “I think I’m going to kiss you anyway.” 

And kiss him he did. Draco sighed, full Victorian ghost. Pansy had been right; he’d wanted this for far longer than the month he’d even been aware. He’d wanted this since Harry had beat him in their first Quidditch game. Since Harry had walked away instead of punching him when he’d seen the badges. Since Harry had pulled him from the deadly flame and since he’d seen him in the Ministry halls and since he _had_ punched Draco. 

Draco wanted to be forgiven, yes, but more than that, he’d wanted to forgive; forgive his parents and Voldemort and himself and the world they lived in. As stupid as it was that one kiss could represent so much, Draco knew it did. 

His hand sparked with weak kinetic energy where it rested in Harry’s, their magic flowing into one another and making him shudder. Their bodies were otherwise flush; Draco feared the moment Harry would let go, come back to his senses, release him and put the space between them again. He held on tight to the back of Harry’s robe, suddenly terrified. 

“Hey,” Harry whispered against his lips, gripping the back of Draco’s neck. “Hey, I’ve got you.” 

“For now,” Draco muttered painfully, Pulling back and resting his forehead against Harry’s. “This is a game to you. We just… wanted to see how far we could push each other, and you’re winning. That’s always been the way.” 

Harry smiled, a strange and alien expression from where Draco was resting; he shut his eyes against the pain the expression caused. 

“Are you ever planning to forgive _yourself_, Draco? If not, let me know. Because it won’t matter how much everyone else tells you they’ve moved on if you don't.” 

“You sound like Dr Stenhouse,” Draco whispered, his eyes watering from being squeezed shut. He opened them and found Harry’s palm, moving to scoop his cheek. 

“Yeah, well. You would know.”

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was very far north, nestled in the foothills of Scotland, utterly unreachable to Muggles. It was difficult to get into without being invited, and truthfully, it didn’t get many unexpected visitors regardless. The castle was hidden from prying eyes, secure for its students, full of magical lessons, community, adventure, and happiness. 

Hogwarts school, when they both arrived for the second time, turned out to be the perfect place for Harry Potter to fall in love with Draco Malfoy; here, they easily hid from the world and redeemed themselves to each other. In the safety of the ancient walls, they let their magnetism and easy intimacy blossom into an unshakable relationship; here, they approached each other with an innocence and forgiveness they had never once granted each other in their childhood. They discovered all that they had in common, all the places their differences made them stronger together. 

After the first step had been taken, their friendship stabilized before they ever worked out how to be lovers; it was months before Draco would admit that he loved Harry, even though it had likely been true since he’d written that letter. The real nature of the changes between them remained unknown to all but McGonagall, whom they told on their six month anniversary. She had merely smirked, nodded, and warned them not to tell the students, a knowing gaze behind her glasses that made them both squirm. 

Slowly, the students figured it out anyway. But in the end, it didn’t matter. The students in these walls were unaware, for the most part, why Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter should definitely _not_ be in love. They tittered and joked, but only because it was their _teachers_ in love; truthfully, had the student body ever been polled, the Headmistress would have simply discovered overwhelming relief that two of the school’s favourite professors and coaches were happy. 

How the outside world felt about it hardly mattered; two men falling in love in a remote corner of Scotland was very uninteresting to the Wizarding world, especially if they were never convinced to find it interesting. The story never hit the papers, despite the reappearance of a much-beloved and well-known Gossip Columnist a year after their first kiss. 

No one in the World Quidditch Organisation suspected a thing when they arrived each spring to scout out prospects, even if they _did_ fawn over the quality of the Quidditch coaches, who seemed to work so well together on the pitch. 

The Ministry never suspected a possible union between a Death Eater and The Chosen One, not even when they were married three years later; despite the presence of many Aurors, Curse-Breakers, and even elected officials at their small and intimate ceremony in the Highlands. No one asked any questions when their marriage certificate mysteriously managed to be processed without it ever leaking beyond the offices of the Magical Registrar. 

The happiness wasn’t uncomplicated. It also, however, wasn’t delicate or fragile. It developed roots that sunk into the Earth, one tendril for every wrong ever committed toward the other; it found its leaves reaching toward the sun, a future that was growing more beautiful each day, providing light and simplicity to all that rested near it.

* * *


End file.
